Down Memory Lane
4031 Page Court, Pleasanton, CA.
We lived there, ages ago.
It was a cul de sac, and our neighbors were Bob, and his wife whose name I’ve forgotten except that it began with an M (I think). No wait, her name was Fran. Whatever, I was close. They were ancient, and when Bob died my mother woke us up at 6 a.m to tell us he was gone. Ever since then I’ve been terrified of being woken early, and late night phone calls. They never mean well.
Our librarian lived in our neighborhood. She had the tiniest, bitchiest dog possible. It would attack anything that moved, regardless that it could easily be squished by a pencil sharpener. It’s attitude would have been inspiring had it not meant we stayed in when our librarian was out. Of course, I never went out much anyway. That would require getting up from the couch. Yuck.
The school we went to was walking distance. We passed the local supermarket, Lucky’s, then my best friend Marcella’s house and then Justin’s, who, in retrospect, was pretty cute. If I wasn’t at that ‘boys-are-grooosss‘ phase I might have liked him. Oh well.
Marcella and Justin hated each other; which sucked because had it ever occurred to me to like Justin, he’d never have wanted to hang out with us. Our love was doomed from the start.
Principal Maher was great. I rarely saw him but he came up with kickass schemes like ‘ Be principal For a Day’. To win, we had to be the best we could for a week. We had to pick up trash, work hard at our assignments, be nice to losers etc. Every time we did something good, we’d get a ticket on which we’d write our name and class, and put it in the ballot outside the office. The more tickets you earn, the more your chances to win. There’d be a lottery on Friday and any two lucky kids from the school would get to be Prinicipal for the day. That meant you got ice-cream, were exempt from schoolwork, and had your picture printed in the paper. Not much, you say? Hey, ask a 3rd grader.
Anyway, here’s how dumb I am. This girl from my class offered me a deal. If I gave her my tickets, she’d buy me a fruit roll up every day for a week. A fruit roll-up. That’s it. I fell for it, and guess what? She won. Considering how Machiavellian she was, I’m pretty sure that was my ticket that got pulled out. To think, I could have been principal had my soul not been so easily corruptible.
I haven’t returned to Pleasanton after we moved to Karachi in 1994. It’s nowhere near Chicago or New York where the rest of my relatives live, so there’s never been a reason to go to California. I keep thinking about the house, and the schoolyard with it’s dry piece of fertilizer like soil, and the public library which was the closest to Paradise I’ve been in my life and I wish to God that I could have one day to visit all of them again. See how they’ve changed, see if they still look and feel and smell the same. To be honest, I never believed I would get to.
How I wish there was some way to tell the people at Google how much I love them.
Hello housey baby!
I found out that by double clicking an address on Google Map, you might get a Street View option (only for countries they weren’t afraid to go to- there’s nothing for Pakistan or Iran). Anyway, this saves me the near impossible task of downloading the Google Earth software- a job which nearly cost me my acrylic nails and sanity when I tried around a year ago- as well as gives me a way I can see my…
…School. Basically that’s the parking lot and the kiddy playground and the main building, but what is cool is that I actually managed to trace my entire ruote to school, which included passing
Marcella and Justin’s house. Isn’t it ironic they lived right in front of each other?
Heaven knows where they are now. They probably fell in love with each other in High School and got married at 16, which led to a kid that they’re poisoning slowly on American fast food- ergo, the American dream.
Or they could have gone on to college, become dentists or lawyers, and are on their way to being the decent, respectable people that make the United States the great country it is- ergo, the American dream
In either case, they’ve probably forgotten me.
End of this post.
Love you all, folks! I’m off to walk the streets of Barcelona!